


A Rock, A Cup, and Cupcakes

by musicmillennia



Series: Small Chubby Dragons [3]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Fluff, Gift Giving, M/M, Small Chubby Dragons, They Small, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 12:43:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9727358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicmillennia/pseuds/musicmillennia
Summary: Two small chubby dragons don't know what to give each other for Valentine's Day.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine's Day from these cuties

Usually it wouldn't be such a big deal. They don't do touchy-feely or slow dances or streamers.

But they're dragons. If a gift-giving holiday comes up, it's just instinct. Mates share hoards and gifts all the time. Valentine's Day was practically made for dragon mating rituals.

Well, Lenny doesn't seem too bothered. His talons click across their floor with perfect confidence as he trots around making plans for their next heist. If he were anybody else, Mick would've thought he'd forgotten, but this is Lenny. The only thing Lenny forgets is chapstick for the times he needs to grow into human skin.

Which means he already has something in place, and Mick's got nothin'. Typical.

It's already noon. What is he gonna do?

 

What the hell is Len gonna do?

Mick keeps sending him these  _looks,_ all disgruntled like he knows Len doesn't have anything for him. He tried to look calm as he scrambles onto another table (which are unfairly high; why did Lisa have to grow so big?) but he's pretty sure he's adjusting his little sweater too much. Mick knows his tells. He's screwed.

What could he possibly get Mick, though? He's already got the heat gun for his fireless human form, fire opals for his hoard, even bottled Greek fire from Len's friend of a friend sea serpent in Greece.

At his heart, Mick is a simple dragon: he loves shiny things and fire. This should be easy.

Len snuffles and plops to his belly, propping up on his small arms so he can scribble some notes on a blueprint. A heist is a terribly predictable gift no matter what the score or the plan, but it's all he's got.

Maybe he just needs to think on it some more.

 

Oh great, now Len's leaving. Probably to go finalize somethin'. Mick really hopes he doesn't have to wear a bowtie again. It just doesn't send a menacing look when you're a small dragon in a bowtie.

Mick scratches behind his jutted bull horn. He can't help but realize how pathetic he must look: plopped on his ass, sittin' like a toddler with his rhinoish hind legs sticking out and little muscled wings drooped on his back, watching Len buzz out the door like a sad pup.

It pisses him off. But what's he gonna do?

 

Fuck. This gift sucks.

 

Damn it. This gift is shit.

 

**6:00 PM**

Dinnertime on Valentine's Day. Time for those romantic dinners and cutesy walks under the city lights.

Len and Mick order takeout and bury their tiny heads in the cartons while watching some random movie they found on Netflix.

Mick sneaks a peek at Len. He's pretty, Len is: cerulean scales with tiny smidges of ice clumps and talons, little horns curved in deceptively delicate waves so they look almost like antlers. His paws look like serpentine human hands, the opposite of Mick's pudgy things, their lithe form matching the fluid lean of his wings with their ice blue membranes. He's plump, like Mick, but that's really all they have in common.

His gift is completely inadequate for him. Shit.

Meanwhile, Len glances at Mick's sharp firetruck red scales, thick bull horns and thicker snout, and forcefully doesn't think about how crappy his gift is. Mick's rhino paws hug his carton close while he eats, his meaty wings curled productively around him with their bright orange membranes and vivd scars. His yellow underbelly, slightly chubbier than the rest of him, is the comfiest place in the world, and Len knows that from experience.

He deserves so much better than what Len got him.

But he might as well face the music and get it over with.

Slowly, he slides his carton away. It takes his whole body to do it in order to get any sort of distance, which Mick picks up on. He stops eating too.

"So," Len drawls, keeping his expression calm.

Mick sits back with his hind legs spread out and his front paws between them. He seems perfectly at ease. "So."

Fuck it.

Len rolls to his feet. His wings blur, carrying him into the air and across the room. There's a cabinet in the kitchen that nobody uses: perfect for hiding a crap gift. He tows it back over, landing a tad awkwardly on his hind legs.

It's a small box wrapped in innocuous red paper. Nothin' special. Len sets himself back on all fours and noses it to Mick.

Then he goes back a few steps to sit and wait.

Mick eyes the gift with an unreadable expression. Then he sighs a puff of smoke and rolls to his feet, only to throw himself under the couch.

Len blinks, watching his hind legs scramble this way and that. Mick always did like to store things under the couch. There was a rat who lived there that he's made friends with who guards his stuff for a salary of food. He finally grunts in triumph and propels himself backwards with a heave of his wings.

In his teeth is a little bag tied with a string. It's blue velvet, Len's favorite, and the string is sparkling silver.

Len definitely fucked up this year.

Mick carefully sets the gift at Len's feet.

And they sit behind their gifts and stare.

Len finally decides that he might as well start things off. Mick's gonna be disappointed either way.

His bitterness melts the second he unties the string.

Mick lightly rubs his archless paw against the rug. "I's not the real thing," he mumbles, "but. Y'know. Figured you could...hold it better." He cringes a little. "Or whatever."

It's a miniature Stanley Cup.

Len takes it from its bag. He may or may not have a bad case of starry eyes. It feels like the real thing, the huge one that Len can only lift with a shifting spell, and it looks like it too, right down to the teams.

It's almost as big as him, but Len still tries to curl around it like an enthusastic snake, purring frost as he goes.

Mick perks up. "You...you like it?"

Len twist himself into the Cup itself. Yes. This will be his new bed.

The sound of paper dripping reminds him of how miserable he should be.

Reluctantly, Len peeks over the edge of his Cup. Mick loves the challenge of wrapping paper. His rounded paws can't grab onto it, so he has to get creative. Makes Chanukah into a show.

Eventually, Mick teethes it open, followed by the cardboard box. He peers inside.

Len's wings twitch. "You got so many," he says, "but I found it in that Santini's cave, y'know, the one with the unicorn horns? Thought it looked cool."

Damn it. Now  _he's_ cringing. And Mick...Mick is rolling into a ball?

Len whips his head up. Mick only ever pulls an armadillo with somethin' when he really likes it. And here he is, growling and snuffling around a sparkly geode, rolling around the living room like a scaly hamster ball.

Len wiggles up, waits for it...and pounces on him.

Geode and Cup temporarily forgotten, the two little dragons wrestle across the carpet, making the TV shake precariously when they collide with it. Their wings buzz and their elements cloud the air above them, creating a weird kind of fog.

And, somehow, they end up cocooned around each other.

Mick's larger wings wrap around them both. "Thought you wouldn't like mine," he says.

Len shifts a little. "Can't say I wasn't airtight either."

Their big eyes look at each other.

"Wanna have cupcakes?" Mick asks.

Len smirks. "You read my mind."


End file.
